Burnt Magna Open Ic, Cool your feet, have a drink. Options

[lodestar]

The large figure stood motionless in the drizzle and mist, the muted electronic bleep barely audible in the sound of running water in the street. The cheap phone had rung just once before he hung it up. That was all it was needed, a number appeared somewhere on a vid phone he imagined. No face, no message, only th data of a missed incoming call. The job was done. Shortly, if all went well, more data would be transferred, electronic nuyen to an orbital account. The figure shifts, pulling cheap electric blue device from the large pocket, the phone small in his hand. The phone a hip teenage kid might buy or steal to gossip with friends, or to ask mom for a ride. He dropped the phone to the concrete and ground it to plastic fragments under a large kevlar shanked boot. Looking up, adjusting his old fedora, he surveyed the empty street. Four blocks away from touristville, and five from the last appropriated Americar, He decided it was time for a drink.

He looked up at the ancient lighted sign. Tranclucent plexiplast scorched by an unknown flame, proclaimed Magna Computer Solutions alongside another survivor marking the location of Redmond Dental Clinic . The only remanants of what used to be the original purpose of this now abandoned office complex. plastic shards of signs identifying the other former residents crunched underfoot as he approached the "Burnt Magna" sign, and the only remaining glass door beneath, greyed chipboard alternating with corrugated fibreglass lining the walls to the entryway. Through the spiderweb of safetyglass was the only sign of life this night, gregarious blue and pink ebbing neon boasting this place "open"

He had only been to the Burnt Magna once before. It was a neutral place where not even the sprawl gangers would cause a ruckus. It seemed like a good place now, he needed to get off his feet for a bit, relax - as much as he ever could - and maybe find a lead on his next line of work.

Except for the bartender idly chatting with the server over the events unfolding on the tridset in the corner the place was empty. Both pause to regard the new entrance and went back to the dquiet discussion, their voices matching the volume of the subdued trid. It was probably too late for the usual patrons, and the weather turned away any adventurers from touristville. But that was alright, he only needed a dry place to sit and a drink. Pulling the large gloves from his hands, large flat fingers folded them and stuffed them into a convinient pocket in his tent of a trenchcoat. Most observers would peg him of robustus stock, or maybe a large human, only the most trained might notice the patchwork of Russian bioplast which coverd the backs of his hands, indeed most of his body. Unconsiously brushing nonexistant dirt from his hands, he makes his way to a booth in the corner, close to the rear exit. When the server makes her way to his place out of the direct light of the bioluminecent strips stapled at intervals to the ceiling, He peer up at her through thick inset lenses and orders vodka. Stainless steel false teeth form the request in thickly accented english.

The patchwork hands rest on scratched speckled formica. He waits for his drink.